Purple sky fractured above me, stars scattered across the void. My feet crunched on black sand—no, not sand. Obsidian. Razor-sharp grains that should have sliced my bare feet but somehow didn't.
Mountains of the same glassy black stone rose in impossible formations around me, reflecting the violet light in ways that hurt to look at directly. The air tasted like metal and ozone, static electricity raising the hair on my arms.
I'd been here before. Many times.
I turned slowly, already knowing what I'd find. There—embedded in the largest obsidian formation—a vertical tear pulsed with the same purple light as the sky. Not blue like normal gates. Purple. Wrong.
My feet carried me forward without my permission. Always did. No matter how I tried to turn away, run away, my body moved inexorably toward the gate.
The static in the air intensified as I approached. Voices whispered just below the threshold of understanding. A language I almost recognized but couldn't quite grasp.
Ten feet from the gate now. The obsidian beneath my feet vibrated. Five feet. The whispers grew urgent.
At the threshold, I always hesitated. Always looked back at the empty landscape of black glass and violet sky. Always wondered if this time I could break the pattern, turn away, refuse to enter.
I never could.
I stepped through.
And fell.
Endless falling through a tunnel of purple light and shadow. Wind screaming past my ears. The voices growing louder, clearer, almost comprehensible—
I jerked upright, a gasp tearing from my throat. Sweat plastered my shirt to my chest. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
Just a dream. Just the same fucking dream.
I pressed my palm against my forehead, feeling the heat radiating from my skin. The darkness of our studio apartment slowly took shape around me as my eyes adjusted. The outline of our small kitchenette. The shadow of Noel's desk with her computer equipment. The window with its blinds half-drawn, letting in slivers of streetlight.
Beside me, Noel slept undisturbed. Black hair splayed across her pillow, one arm flung over her face.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed: 3:37 AM.
I carefully extracted myself from the bed, moving with the practiced silence of someone who'd spent years trying not to wake his sister. My feet found the floor, and I padded to the bathroom, closing the door before turning on the light.
The mirror reflected a stranger. Pale skin. Dark circles under eyes that looked too old for my face. White hair sticking up at odd angles.
I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face. It didn't help. The dream clung to me like a second skin, the sensation of falling still echoing through my body.
Fuck this.
I changed quickly into running shorts and a t-shirt, laced up my shoes in the dark, and grabbed my keys. Noel wouldn't wake before seven.
Outside, Los Angeles slumbered in that strange liminal space between late night and early morning. The air held a rare crispness that would burn off with the dawn. My breath fogged slightly as I stretched against the railing of our third-floor walkway.
I started slow, jogging down the stairs and out onto the street. Left at the corner, past darkened storefronts and the occasional all-night convenience store. My muscles warmed gradually, the familiar burn chasing away the remnants of the dream.
By mile two, I hit my rhythm. The city blurred around me. My mind emptied of everything except the cadence of my footfalls and the steady in-out of my breathing.
I'd started running after our parents died. Couldn't sleep then either. Too many thoughts. Too much responsibility suddenly thrust upon seventeen-year-old shoulders. Running became my escape, the only time my brain shut up long enough to let me think.
Or not think. That was the real gift.
My route took me through neighborhoods that transitioned from working-class to middle-class and back again. Past houses where people slept safely in their beds, unaware of the thin membrane separating their reality from the horrors that lived in the gates.
The horrors that had taken our parents.
The official report called it a "gate malfunction." One of those sanitized terms the Association used to cover up their fuck-ups. What actually happened, according to the hunters who survived, was that the S-rank gate in Utah had been misclassified. By the time they realized it was something else entirely—something new—it was too late.
Fifty-seven hunters entered that gate. Eight came back out. Our parents weren't among them.
I rounded a corner and picked up my pace, as if I could outrun the memories. My father's laugh. My mother's hands, always smelling faintly of the lavender lotion she used. The way they'd sit us down after particularly dangerous missions, explaining the risks of their profession while assuring us they'd always come home.
Until they didn't.
The inheritance should have been substantial. A-rank hunters made good money, and our parents had been careful with their earnings. But somehow, in the aftermath, lawyers and distant relatives materialized like vultures. By the time the dust settled, Noel and I had enough to survive but not much more.
I'd dropped out of college my freshman year to work construction. Good money, flexible hours, and they didn't care that I occasionally disappeared for D-rank gate clearings when we needed extra cash. Noel had insisted on helping but I refused. "Both of us deserve to have a future," she said.
She'd never understood that her future was the only one that mattered to me.
My watch beeped—thirty minutes out. Time to turn back. I looped around a small park and headed home, the sky just beginning to lighten from black to deep blue.
The dream nagged at me as my mind cleared. The purple gate. The obsidian landscape. The falling. It had started about nine months ago, recurring with increasing frequency. Now I had it almost every night.
I shook off the thought as I approached our apartment building. The sky had lightened to a pale gray, the first birds beginning their morning songs. My shirt clung to me with sweat, my legs pleasantly tired.
I took the stairs two at a time, muscles loose and warm. At our door, I paused, key in hand. For a moment, I felt a strange reluctance to go inside, as if crossing that threshold would force me to confront things I'd rather avoid.
Stop being dramatic. It's just a fucking dream.
I unlocked the door quietly and slipped inside. The apartment was still dark, but I could make out Noel's form in the bed, still asleep. I headed for the shower, stripping off my sweaty clothes and stepping under the hot spray.
As the water pounded against my shoulders, I thought about Kafka. About what she'd said. Your energy signature is unique. The same thing my father used to say, in different words.
What if he'd been right? What if there was something about me, something I'd been denying all these years?
And what if that something was connected to the dreams?
I shut off the water and toweled dry, wrapping it around my waist. In the mirror, steam obscured my reflection, leaving only a vague outline. I wiped a circle clear with my hand.
For a second—just a split second—I thought I saw something in my eyes. A flash of purple, there and gone so quickly I couldn't be sure it had existed at all.
I blinked hard, leaning closer to the mirror. Nothing. Just sky blue eyes staring back at me.
"You're losing it, Valentine," I muttered.
"Talking to yourself again?" Noel's voice came from the doorway.
I turned to find her leaning against the frame, arms crossed over her chest. Her black hair stuck up on one side, her eyes still heavy with sleep.
"You're up early," I said.
"Heard the shower." She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Bad dream again?"
I hesitated, then nodded. No point lying to Noel. She always knew.
"The purple one?"
"Yeah."
Noel pushed off from the doorframe, moving into the bathroom. She reached up, pressing her palm against my cheek. Her hand felt cool against my skin.
"You can talk to me, you know. About the dreams. About anything."
I covered her hand with mine, squeezed once, then let go. "I know."
She searched my face for a moment longer, then dropped her hand. "I'm making coffee. You want some?"
"Please."
She left, and I turned back to the mirror. Just me. Just ordinary, D-rank Xavier Valentine with his construction job and his small apartment and his dreams of falling through purple gates.
Nothing special. Nothing unique. Nothing to attract the attention of an S-rank hunter like Kafka.
I toweled my hair roughly, trying to scrub away the lingering unease. It didn't matter what my father had thought. It didn't matter what Kafka had seen or thought she'd seen. The only thing that mattered was keeping Noel safe, making sure she had the future our parents would have wanted for her.
Everything else was just noise. Distraction. Dreams.
I wrapped the towel more securely around my waist and followed the smell of brewing coffee into the kitchen, leaving the dreams—and the questions they raised—behind.
For now.